Port Townsend, WA (8:30 AM) to Roseburg, OR (5:00 PM). 386 miles.

Notables: I’m really sick of The Time Traveler’s Wife audiobook. I know it’s a big bestseller, but I like the movie better (Plot vs Really Dopey Romance).

Tunes: The Best of Jackson Browne.

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Up at 4:00 to pack and sit with my journal (I do wish I could be one of those people who oversleep once in a while. I might as well wish I was 23 and French). Then, it was one last meal at the Fort’s big dining hall (another delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs with salmon and fresh greens, fresh fruit, toast and good coffee), one more round table of laughs with my new art-buddies from all over the country, and I was back on the road.

John was in top form as we threaded our way through the forests. We pointedly avoided any more ferries or tollways. One bollixed crossing was quite enough. And I love forests even more than the desert, so it was like driving through my personal version of heaven. Even the rest stops offered a bit of forest to explore between dumping car-garbage and visiting the loo (I’m afraid John’s rubbed off on me a bit).

We paused at this lovely stop just north of the Washington/Oregon border. Everything was so green. And it was 73°. Green and warm and foresty. Tiny angels whistled in my ear.

And tonight, another mind-blowing bed and breakfast. Doris and Mike live a little outside of town. As I followed the proper twisty country road, I spied a huge buffalo chewing its cud on some guy’s front lawn. Or pasture. Whatever the green stuff is that swaddles a buffalo. I was too intent on finding Doris and Mike to think anything other than, “Huh. Folks do things a little different out here.”

Doris is what my grandma would have called Just Good Folks; hard-working, generous, no-nonsense. The house is gorgeous, filled with antiques and Doris’ oil paintings (we nattered about art for a while). She showed me to the laundry room and invited me to eat supper with them, their son, and another AirBNB couple. This is not standard B&B fare.

Supper was delicious with lively conversation. I imagine boarding houses must have been like this in the Long Ago; strangers gathered at a table and resting, safe, under the roof of a Good Woman (and her Good Man). It feels very homey here.

And now the smell of fresh laundry dominates my room. Clean undies! I can fall asleep with the window cracked to let in the Very Different scent of the Pacific Northwest; more ozone, more oxygen, more ocean-washed than Flatland air.

The chickens out in their pen are quiet now (um… yes, we ate chicken for supper). I visited them before they tucked their beaks under for the night, because chickens this fat and beautiful deserved to be visited. And I knew Cheryl would love them (you’re welcome).

Now it’s time for me to tuck my beak under my wing. Sweet Dreams and Pleasant Poultry. And may you feel the road rush under your wheels.

Thank you for the chickens–all the way along your journey. I’ve noticed and smiled. My goodness. What a time it’s been. Stay focused on the story you’re building. It’s genuine and good. I love the moments, the tidbits, you are able to glean from the tide of the day. Blessings.